Afterparty(75)

He has his arms around me, and he says, “Could we fast-forward to being okay? Skip the long emo conversation with crying and be okay?”

I sink into his desk chair, and he spins me around.

I say, “Probably not.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Two sappy sentences, maybe? One with a lot of clauses Massive reassurance?”

He sits behind me on the bed. “I don’t do sap. Last time I tried to do sap, I invited you to that party. How did that work out for you?”

Dylan swivels my chair until I’m facing him. “Shit. You don’t stop crying, do you?” He grabs the back of the desk chair and rolls me through the darkness into the guesthouse’s tiny kitchen. “I’ll give you sap. I have half your chocolate duck left over from Valentine’s Day.”

“You bought me a chocolate duck?”

“Okay, it was a swan and it came in a silver bag. Is that sappy enough for you? But it’s missing its head and neck.”

“You decapitated my swan?”

“I was hungry.”

Dylan opens the refrigerator, which is completely filled with international take-out. Pizza, and tacos, and Indian, and Chinese rice boxes.

“You were hungry. Have you been ordering snacks every night?”

Dylan says, “This is dinner. I don’t eat with them. When Aiden’s not here, family life grinds to a halt. Not that I mind.”

I touch his sleeve. “Your dad’s still . . . here?”

He says, “We’re not going to talk about my dad. Ever. Suffice to say, he’s still here; Aiden’s not here; neither is my mom, mostly; and I’m leaving. Nothing has changed.”

Dylan roots around in the refrigerator, behind what looks to be a quart of take-out Chinese soup, and pulls out an extremely wrinkled foil bag covered in silver mesh. He reaches in and breaks a wing off my swan and he sits on the kitchen table and feeds it to me. Establishing for all eternity that the universe, or at least Beverly Hills north of Santa Monica Boulevard, is not completely f*cked.

I say, “I got you the best valentine. It came from the fifties. It went with the dress.”

“We’re also never going to talk about that party.”

“Fine, just answer this one question: Did Siobhan flat-out tell you I went over there to get with Aiden?”

He groans, “Yes. And we’re not talking about how I fell for that, either.” He raps his forehead against the door of a kitchen cabinet.

Which is not—despite my complete sorry-ness and sopping up of all possible responsibility for everything I ever did—entirely inappropriate. Even though she’s the one I want to slam, Siobhan, the person formerly known as my best friend. As my any kind of friend.

I say, “Christ, Dylan. If I want a list of things that I can’t talk about, I’ll stay home.”

He says, “Shut up and eat.” He breaks off another piece and he outlines my lips with it. Withholds it a few inches from my mouth, very briefly, and then feeds me tiny, sweet splinters of dark chocolate.

“I’m afraid if I keep teasing you with this duck, you’ll bawl again,” he says.

“What if I gave you the valentine?”

“What if I teased you?”

At which point, he rolls the chair back into the bedroom.





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO


I WAKE UP TO BIRDS chirping, and a room filled with pale gray light. Which would be charming except it’s 9:40 in the morning and I’m still at Dylan’s house. My car is still parked in his driveway. My head is on his pillow, and my clothes are draped over his desk chair.

I’m wearing a T-shirt with Kurt Cobain on the front, no doubt the universe’s way of saying, Off yourself immediately and get it over with, because you are monumentally dead.

On the other hand, we are so back together.

My head feels spongy and I don’t even remember how I ended up falling asleep here. Which is, I guess, how falling asleep works. Wham, you’re down. Other than the imminent deadness part of it, sleeping over here was nice. Waking up to rain on the shingles and Dylan spread over three-quarters of his bed.

Nine forty. Brunch with the Karps. Oh God.

“I was supposed to be home from Siobhan’s at nine!”

Dylan hands me my phone. Four missed calls. Which I slept through.

And then there’s the exciting prospect of Dylan being reminded of my improvisational skills when I tell my dad some fairy tale all about how his (slightly debauched) princess is over at Siobhan’s house. Not how I’ve been cuddled up all night with the world’s most restless sleeper. Who seems remarkably calm under the circumstances, given that unless I fix this, he’s going to be executed by my dad.

My only slim ray of hope is that if my dad tried to reach me on Burton’s landline, nobody over there is up before noon on weekends.

My dad opens with: “Why aren’t you here?”

I am feeling a confusing combination of dread, guilt, and extreme happiness. “I slept through your calls!” (True.) “I didn’t set the alarm on my phone.” (True.) “I’ve never been this late in my whole life!” (True.)

He tells me how rude and inconsiderate I am in French, which is somehow more appalling than in English, although it no doubt beats being nailed with whatever term applies to girls who spend the night in boys’ beds.